


Here Be Sleeping Dragons

by be_cum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Treville Doesn't Get Paid Enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be_cum/pseuds/be_cum
Summary: Treville once again revisited his mental list of excuses why he was still working here. The list turned out to be uninspiringly short.Treville is a Head of Gryffindor, which surprises no one. The Triwizard Tournament is held at Hogwarts this year, and he is not looking forward to it for a plethora of reasons.Because some things change (D’Artagnan finally grew out of his ridiculous haircut). Some, to Treville’s dismay, don’t.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I’m Russian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologise in advance for abysmal grammar&stylistics and all that jazz.
> 
> Although [this](http://nightractor.diary.ru/p195608345.htm) served as an inspiration, this fic is [glassbones’](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbones) fault. Blame them. Back in 2015 glassbones and I were enjoying a rare sunny day when we started discussing an ‘obligatory Harry Potter AU’. They said Treville is a Head of Gryffindor. When I said Richelieu’s occupation, it sent us into hysterics and we couldn’t breathe. Glassbones, know that you are a right pidoras*. You owe me that Modern!AU with STI and one-night stand.  
> *don’t use 'pidoras’ in public. It’s a rude word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post a chapter of this ghost!fic as grabmotte calls it. I don’t know why, I just do. It’s been sitting there since 2015, so this is my flimsy excuse.

_Never tickle a sleeping dragon_

— Hogwarts’ motto

 

_or don’t let it sleep at all_

— Fifty points from the idiot who scribbled this nonsense on the school's coat of arms _  
_

 

* * *

 

“During their last term fifth-year students will practice Vanishing Spells, that can be applied to small animals; and I think that the introduction of lectures dedicated to basic mathematical formulae of Conjuring Spells for those who are planning on taking Transfiguration in the sixth year—”

“Wait”, there was a sound of lazy voice somewhere to his right. “Don’t you think that writing out all these formulae is a little bit… Muggle-like approach to magic?”

 _‘Dear Merlin, do you really give a toss about it, you snake bastard?’_ Treville thought.

“Transfiguration is a precise subject,” followed a cool reply as the Professor of Transfiguration marginally lifted her eyebrow. “Before proceeding to practice, one must have a certain theoretical foundation. Headmaster?”

“Well, you are being quite reasonable. I’ll consider your request for an extra academic hour…”

Ever so reasonable Anne Habsburg finally put her scroll with the changed Transfiguration syllabus on top of a pile of other papers glancing over her colleagues.

Treville, in his turn, glanced over the abundance of parchment on the table. Reports, development projects and curriculums that had to be discussed. He also had to listen to every single professor, find some forgotten piece of paper in the pockets of his old robe and try to pretend to be busy.

Summer had been ending for the past couple of days, yet the swelter had been increasing with every passing day, and it slowed down his train of thoughts.

Strictly speaking, it’s not like Treville had a lot of those at the moment. His proposal had been a constant throughout the years of his working experience.

“I propose to decrease the amount of hours dedicated to Defence Against Dark Arts”, he said. “They are already improperly excessive.”

Anne shook her head: her refusal had been a constant throughout the years of her working at Hogwarts.

“This year’s program is going to be slightly altered in order to help the international students to adjust to our curriculum. Plus, our colleagues are planning to read lectures for both their and our students.”

It had been fifteen years since the last Triwizard Tournament was held at Hogwarts, and Treville had already forgotten that it’s such a tedious and troublesome task. But then, Hogwarts of fifteen years ago was in such battered state, so Treville had worried more about keeping the Astronomy Tower roof from falling on some passer-by and less about miscellaneous plans and papers.

The Triwizard tournament was believed to be the best way to establish cordial relations between the magical youth of various nationalities, or at least this was what the last Chief Council had said before his resignation.

The current Chief differed from his predecessor only by being marginally more sagacious and competent when it came to politics. Marginally.

For which reason he didn't mention that the Triwizard Tournament was just another opportunity for countries to play tug of war on a political arena.

“In this brochure there is a very detailed information about the members of the delegation that visits Hogwarts this year,” Anne flicked her wand, and a pile of brochures moved around the room.

Treville opened the brochure on a random page. The book spread told a detailed biography of some minor official who, according to a footnote written in Anne’s elegant handwriting, was coming as an escort in the beginning of May.

_"Why?"_

“Headmaster wants the professors to express an utmost respect to all of the officials who are going to visit our school,” Anne’s lips twitched as if she tried to conceal a frustrated sigh. “As you remember, after, er… last year’s incident, we don't stand high in favour with Hogwarts Board of Governors…”

The last year's incident had involved an illegal Apparition of under-age students in the Forbidden Forest, and it was only by Merlin's grace that it hadn't ended up with lethal splinching. Treville was fighting the urge to palm his face with all his might.

“Therefore, Headmaster is willing to take every measure imaginable to keep the school’s status intact and the letters from furious parents at bay”, Treville closed a book with a thud which could barely be called a mere ‘book’ due to its massive size and put it aside. This year was promising to be challenging already, and because of this imbecilic Headmaster’s desire to please the Wizards’ Council...

A fly banged itself against the window bringing Treville back to reality. Anne stared him down with a look that she saved for the end of their every, however fleeting, meeting.

Bloody Merlin, these staff meetings be damned. Who needs them anyway?

“Captain, _please_ ,” Anne’s stare didn’t match her pleading tone at all. “It’s been Headmaster’s request to maintain the school’s reputation this year which has been heavily tarnished of late.”

The unsaid ‘and let this term pass without any incidents’ hung awkwardly in the air. Treville finally gave up and hid his face in his hand.

“Of course, Anne,” he nodded. His grim voice didn’t match his enthusiastic posture. “This year will definitely go well.”

Head of Gryffindor and proud?

Treville was willing to punch whoever dared to say this in his face.

 

* * *

 

He woke up when it was dark. After glancing at the clock Treville swore under his breath as he realised that it wasn’t the dark of dawn but the dark of well past the sunset.

He lifted his head from a curriculum plan for Year Three that served him as a pillow, pushed the chair with a creak and stumbled out of the door.

“You’ve got sleep wrinkles!” The portrait of Mad John piped after him.

“If only those were the sleep ones, you old fool,” Treville grumbled strategically skipping over the missing steps of the staircase. He was shamelessly and unavoidably late.

Lathered and panting, no sooner had he managed to take his place at the High Table, than the drenched to the bone students started slowly making their way through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

“Treville… is everything okay?” De Foix asked carefully.

“What is it?”

“Er, on your cheek, there’s a…”

“Let me make an educated guess, is it the sleep wrinkles?” Treville replied sarcastically.

“Well, not exactly, it actually says ‘greenland’... Did you mean grindylow for Year Three?”

Treville rubbed his skin trying to get rid of the stains.

De Foix gave him a pitiful look and flicked his wand. A soft breeze of cleaning spell swept over his cheek.

“I need a drink,” Treville wheezed out nodding gratefully.

“You hold fast. Oh, yours are coming through…”

‘His’ were four students, all of them dishevelled and dirty. Judging by their broad grins, the muddled state of their clothing was none of their bother. Treville turned around. Professors, in perfect sync with one another, visibly tensed and cast a sidelong look at him.

“If it was down to me, I’d make them sit right here next to me tied up to a chair”, he complained to De Foix.

“Looking at the bright side, it’s their last year at Hogwarts,” De Foix tried to reason him.

“I really regret that it’s impossible to travel back in time so I can bribe the Hat to sort them into Hufflepuff.” Treville muttered. “Or Slytherin. Or Ravenclaw. Whichever, really, as long as it’s not my House.”

“Well, I did try to dissuade you from taking the position, didn’t I?” De Foix reminded him not without a hint of gloat. Himself, he was perfectly content as a Professor of Charms. Unlike Treville, he had no grey hair and he wasn't at risk of untimely death from a nervous breakdown.

“Leaving Gryffindor in Buckingham’s care?” Treville dropped his voice to a dismal whisper. “Buckingham’s, De Foix? I’d rather eat my hat.”

“You’ve been saying this for the past six years,” De Foix replied. “Your hat is still intact, as far as I'm aware.”

“Treville!”

He cursed and tried to hide behind Anne’s empty chair while Anne herself was busy meeting the first years in front of the Grand Staircase. However, he was too late.

“Good evening, Headmaster,” he mumbled unintelligibly, eyes fixed on enchanted ceiling.

“What a horrible weather, isn’t it?” Treville could tell even without looking that Louis Bourbon could barely refrain from clapping hands with a smile past his ears plastered across his smooth face.

“Er, if you say so, Louis,” Treville responded staring at a conglomeration of black thunderstorm clouds above his head.

He silently begged for Anne to walk in with the first years already.

“I do hope that this year’s Sorting ceremony will go without the usual mischiefs,” Louis laughed.

“Yeah…” Treville agreed grimly and shifted his gaze to the Gryffindor’s table.

Was it down to him, he’d start taking away points well before the beginning of school year just as a preventive measure. Fifty points from Gryffindor and at least the Start-of-Term feast goes without any, as Anne calls them, incidents. Mischievous incidents in particular.

At last, the double doors opened with a creak, and a hush fell over the room. A line of first years with Anne in the lead reached the middle of the room with a distinctive slosh leaving a wet trace behind. Anne placed a rickety four-legged stool in front of them and put the Sorting Hat on top of it, crusty from dirt and covered in mismatched patches.

“It’s so exciting to hear her new song every year!” Louis whispered with agitation.

“Well...” Treville drawled. To his taste the song was always unbearably long and lulled him into sleep.

“Another Besset is coming this year,” De Foix murmured pointing at a little ginger girl with sharp nose.

“Look at Feron turning all green,” Treville chuckled. “The Slytherin colours, now this is the house spirit.”

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” De Foix objected. “Remember the de la Fere brothers.”

“I don’t have to; the remaining one plagues me with his presence every single day.” Treville grumbled peevishly and tuned out the pebbly voice of the Hat.

_“Now slip me snug about your ears,_

_I've never yet been wrong,_

_I'll have a look inside your mind_

_And tell where you belong!”_

As soon as the Sorting Hat finally finished, Louis loudly clapped his hands, the rest followed, and the Great Hall rang with applause. Anne had already unrolled a large scroll of parchment. To Treville, who hadn’t have breakfast let alone lunch (on the other hand, does dinner count as dinner or breakfast if it’s his first meal of the day?), it seemed way longer than the last year’s one.

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool. When the Hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.”

“Adelgrief, Johann!”

A boy with a rather belligerent look on his face stepped forward and jammed the hat on his head.

“Careful, boy,” the Hat admonished before shouting, “Hufflepuff!”

Johann Adelgrief took off the hat, handed it over to Anne and under a round of applause joined the Hufflepuff table.

“Bainbridge, John!”

“Slytherin!” The Hat shouted had it barely touched the top of the dark-haired boy’s head.

Slytherin erupted with cheers. The young Besset, to Feron’s relief and Treville’s disappointment, was sorted into Ravenclaw.

“Chantraine, Anne!”

“Gryffindor!” The yelling at the table was literally deafening, and the Professors who were the closest to it had their ears popping. Slytherin and Gryffindor sat on the opposite sides of the Hall since the time immemorial, and yet it didn’t stop them from the annual challenge of shouting each other down during the Sorting Ceremony.

Meanwhile, the Hat sorted Dorothea Flock (“Slytherin!”) and another victim was approaching the stool.

“Hopefully, the new blood will make our House proud,” Nearly Headless Nick said clapping along the others as Mary Montbazon joined the Gryffindors.

“Sydenham, Thomas!”

“You say so every year,” Treville retorted with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Hufflepuff!”

“And every year you show absolutely no sign of belief in humanity.” Nick chided him.

“Reed, Wilmot!”

“It’s called being realistic.”

“Ravenclaw!”

Finally, the Sorting ended with Walter Warner scuttling off to the Gryffindor table, and hardly had Anne left with the hat and the stool, when Louis bounced off his seat smiling scintillatingly.

“I kindly ask every one of you to stay behind after dinner as I have a few announcements to make, but for now… Tuck in!”

The golden dishes filled with food, and everyone loaded their plates. Anne came back to the High Table.

“Captain,” Anne addressed Treville as she put a slice of kidney pie on her plate. “Don’t you think that erklings are a bit early for the first years?”

“I never liked those,” Louis interrupted waving his fork, and a piece of stew landed on Anne’s snow-white cuff.

“I agree with you, Headmaster,” she replied rubbing off a trace of grease with a napkin.

Louis beamed brighter than a polished copper pot paying no heed to a dirty spot he left on Anne’s sleeve. Treville shook his head. Everyone who was in possession of at least one eye or, for that matter, even lacking aforesaid, knew that Headmaster Bourbon had a spot for Professor Habsburg softer than the kitten's belly.

“So I suggest,” Anne continued giving Treville a very heavy look that didn’t match her lovely almond-shaped blue eyes (save for her immaculate robes, nothing in Anne was matching). “That you leave erklings for, say, Year Three as the main topic of their second term. What do you think, Captain?”

“I totally agree,” Louis rooted for her.

Treville shrugged.

“If you say so.”

When the remnants of dessert had vanished and the plates were squeaky clean, Louis brushed off the sauce from the corners of his mouth and got to his feet again. The chattering subsided and everyone eyed him with curiosity.

“Now that we are all fed and watered,” Louis began casting his eyes down. “Before the term starts I want everyone to hear some start-of-term notices. The forest on the grounds is forbidden to _all_ pupils without the staff’s supervision. Moreover, Professor Habsburg reminds you that no magic should be used between the classes in the corridors. In addition to this, it is forbidden to use magical items including…”

Anne pulled out a piece of parchment and slipped it inconspicuously on the table in front of Louis.

“...Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, Ever-Bashing Boomerangs,” Louis lifted his eyebrows in amusement. “Poisoned Dart Quills, Sewed-In Magical and Non-Magical Plate Armour, Jack-Rapier, Trick Wands With Retractable Swords… well, the list is quite a long one, you can have a look at it in your spare time.”

Anne, deliberately giving Treville no looks of any nature, slipped another parchment next to Louis’ plate.

“Likewise, it’s forbidden to enchant animate and especially _inanimate_ objects on the grounds of Hogwarts.” Treville frowned as he noticed that Louis’ eyes flashed in the direction of Gryffindor table. “Same goes with architecture body and, Professor Habsburg wants to emphasise, it also includes the statues both inside and outside of the castle.”

Somebody at the Gryffindor table exchanged conspiratorial chuckles. Treville cast such a menacing look at them that a few first years had their eyes twitching. Bourbon gratefully gave back the scraps of paper back to Anne and grabbed a goblet of pumpkin juice to get his breath back.

“And with great pleasure I announce that Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament this year,” Louis was wreathed in smiles and almost dropped the goblet with juice, spilling half of it in the process. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Anne, I mean, Professor Habsburg… The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October and will stay at our premises until the end of the school year. The selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. I have no doubt that you will show nothing but hospitality towards our foreign guests and won’t besmirch school’s honour and won’t tarnish its,” _‘tarnished beyond the measure already,’_ Treville thought, “reputation.”

Louis, Anne, Treville and the majority of High Table sent the Gryffindor table a single loaded look.

“As to joint lessons with our foreign friends…”

 _‘If I survive this insane year,’_ Treville promised to himself. _‘I will…’_

And he didn’t have time to make up anything because bloody, Mordred damn him, Charlie D’Artagnan right at this extremely inopportune moment interrupted his train of thought by exploding a very huge, and what’s more important, a very stinky Dungbomb. Treville got to his feet and breathed out deeply because breathing in might as well be fatal in this particular situation. So with whatever left in his lungs, he bellowed:

“I want you four in my office!”

 

* * *

 

September was nudged aside by October, and it brought the first autumn drizzling rains, an extra-thorough cleaning of the castle, absolutely enormous amount of homework and collective, as if pre-festive, frenzy. Then it was gone too remembered only by a ladies' room ruined by a miniature cannonball and chapped hands because of a week-long detention in the dungeon spent scrubbing the cauldrons.

“Who knew it would hit the toilet instead of Bonnaire.” Aramis grumbled walking down the corridor.

“Initially, we had no plans of firing it on any Bonnaire,” Athos chided. “It all began with your stupid bet with Porthos about this damn melon…”

“I _did_ manage to shoot it with my eyes closed,” Porthos retorted. “Whose fault was it that Bonnaire was nearby? And the toilet as well…”

“And anyway, we said nothing when you mucked Felton with that Pimple Powder, and he got mad because he thought it was the Dragon Pox,” D’Artagnan added.

“Okay, we did spend a week down at Allaman’s…”

 _‘...Endured an hour of Treville shouting and Feron complaining,’_ Athos added in his mind.

“I have no idea what powder you are talking about,” he said instead.

“…But you have to agree, Athos, that was impressive. Half of the whole corridor flooded…”

“…And it was down to this little, inconspicuous cannonball—”

“This year you have N.E.W.T.s, Mr D’Herblay, and I suggest you concentrate on the third formula of Conjuring Spells rather than on some throwing implements,” that being said, Professor Habsburg demanded to work on raccoon transfiguration in total silence. From — Merlin is a witness; it's not a coincidence — a melon.

During Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs Aramis joined Porthos and D’Artagnan sat with Athos. The logic behind this arrangement was incredibly simple. Aramis and Porthos agreed to learn a half each of whatever was set; Athos, being the top student in the year, had no choice but to know everything; D’Artagnan, on the other hand... In his opinion, theory was clattering up his mind with unnecessary information, and to every subject he had a strictly practical approach based on incredible luck and intuition.

“Thinking about taking part in this Tournament?” Athos asked judging his raccoon with a critical eye.

“Nah, I want to play Quidditch,” Aramis brushed off. “Who needs praise and glory?”

Porthos lowered his wand and turned to him.

“Praise and glory are two of my favourite things,” he disagreed with his dignity mortally wounded. “What about you, D’Artagnan?”

“In the Tournament for pure-bloods?” D’Artagnan asked sarcastically, scratching behind his ear with the wand. “It would've been great though…”

It wasn't hard to follow D'Artagnan's train of thoughts. Any kind of competition led to inevitable victory and admiration of a certain Hufflepuff.

“Look at Mr Bonnaire and his raccoon, D’Artagnan, and please do stop staring at Miss Bonacieux.” Professor Habsburg had lost her final threads of patience and disenchanted Aramis: D’Artagnan, daydreaming, accidentally transplanted his ears onto melons. “I will not have you jinxing everyone in front of the guests from Beauxbatons! Concentrate!”

“How can you talk about concentration after double Divination in the morning,” D’Artagnan murmured, hesitantly turning to his melon, which had no intention of turning into raccoon in the foreseeable future.

Athos couldn't help himself but agree.

The sole advantage of Divination, in his opinion, was beds in lieu of desks. On the other hand though, they were only occupied by those who felt sick. Athos and his peers felt sick more often than they'd like.

Divination wasn’t bad, not exactly, and Professor Emilie, despite her subject being a woolly one, knew what she’s talking about and taught quite competently. The only thing Athos didn’t quite like, and he was sure that many of his classmates shared his opinion, was drinking some vile concoctions that she made. Rumour had it that Miss Emilie wanted Professor Allaman’s position as a Potions Master, but Professor Allaman wasn’t ill nor old enough to retire and generally was quite sprightly for the man of his age. Why did Emilie administer poison to her students and not to the man who held her such desired position remained an inscrutable mystery to them all. During the lessons they usually consumed different brews and potions of questionable nature that, as per Professor’s assurances, brought them visions of the future which they had to decipher later on. The lessons were moderately hard unlike Transfiguration and moderately entertaining unlike History of Magic that was the opposite of any kind of entertainment, unless you enjoyed observing a class full of students being bored to premature death.

Nonetheless, there was something cruel in scheduling double Divination right after breakfast — it was universally acknowledged that one should skip the meal if he didn’t want to stain a carpet with its remnants.

“It’s been told that Beauxbatons’ girls are particularly attractive,” Aramis said airily. “There are even veelas…”

“Our girls are pretty too,” D’Artagnan disagreed vehemently keeping a jealous eye on Constance who was laughing at Lemay’s joke. That poor sod.

“I wouldn’t kiss a veela,” Porthos shook his head critically inspecting his raccoon who inexplicably remained melon-yellow. “You say something or worse, step on her shoe by an accident and you are making out with a harpy.”

“Purely theoretically,” Athos added phlegmatically. “You wouldn’t even be able to kiss her. They have beaks in place of noses.”

“De la Fere, that applies to you as well! Silence!”

“Purely theoretically, you can practice on Habsburg,” Aramis said in a hushed tone. “I’m pretty sure you’ll get similar reaction.”

The four of them tried really hard to envision it, yet the strain on their imagination was so hard that they ultimately failed. Aramis, being the most imaginative of them all, shuddered with consternation.

“It’s all rubbish about the Tournament being for pure-bloods only,” Aramis said firmly as he turned to D’Artagnan.

“We’ll think of something,” Porthos agreed. “There’s always a loop—”

“ _Silencio_ , du Vallon!”

For the rest of the lesson they, save Athos who was unsuccessfully trying to de-silence Porthos, were trying to transfigure Bonnaire into a cactus but ran out of time — the bell rung and when they met him again the hall, Treville was already there. He and other Heads were ordering their students into lines.

“Let the first years in front!” He said. “And you four follow me,” he added darkly as soon as he saw them descending the stairs. “Don’t you dare to pull off any of your tricks this evening if you don’t want Bonnaire as a Seeker in Gryffindor team.”

“You can’t!” D’Artagnan said scandalised.

Treville’s look eloquently said: “Try me”. It wasn’t nearly on par with a meaningful look from Professor Habsburg but it promised the agony that was far more excruciating.

Anne, with the wand at the hand, was checking the appearance of students looking so deceptively benign that even usually impertinent seven years were furtively trying to tuck their shirts and transfigure cravats out of handkerchiefs.

The evening was clear and cold, crisp as a fresh apple. Even though Athos was forced to stand next to Treville, from the front row he could clearly see the front gates. De Foix and Emilie looked up at the sky peppered in big stars in apprehension.

“It’s already six and they’re late,” De Foix said anxiously.

“Saturn is in Libra,” Emilie tutted pressing the Omnioculars to her eyes and it made her look like a gigantic dragonfly.

“I’m Libra,” Louis jumped in. “What does it mean?”

“I’m afraid, Headmaster, it only means that the delegation from Beauxbatons is approaching,” Anne pointed at the sky over the forest. “Their carriage is right there.”

Winged black horses with large blood-shot eyes drew a massive, burgundy carriage. It landed with a thunderous crash and ground down to a halt in front of the awed crowd. The carriage and the horses, dark and Gothic, radiated malice and not a insubstantial level of hostility.

“Well, the choice of transportation doesn’t really bode well for pretty girls,” Porthos whispered in Aramis’ ear.

“May be they are violent and fiery girls,” Aramis replied, hopeful.

The door opened and a girl in a bright-red atlas robe emerged from the carriage. Taking the measure of bewildered students, she hid something that suspiciously reminded Athos of cold weapon and waved her hand. Out fell a shower of Beauxbatons students all wearing similar blood-red uniform. Then followed a tall, slight man dressed in clothing matching the students’ robes. They respectfully parted letting him pass.

The man stepped into the line of pale-yellow light pouring from the castle windows. Athos could make out his pallid face and a beaky nose that made him look like a carnivorous bird. His dark hair heavily streaked with grey and moustaches with a neat goatee just made the resemblance even more apparent. Someone beside Athos gasped. He turned around, puzzled.

Treville didn’t really have a charming smile; in all fairness, charm and Professor Treville stood on the absolutely opposite sides of emotional spectrum, so facial expressions of their stoic Head of Gryffindor were rather limited. Yet never had he seen such expression written across the Captain’s face. An expression of shock, surprise and something strange and too complicated for Athos to understand.

“You,” Treville breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter canon about 17th century is very dodgy (prior to the Ministry of Magic there was Wizards’ Council and such) so some anachronisms may occur (or I just made shit up for convenience).
> 
> P.S. My imagination couldn’t come up with first year students, so I just googled some famous scientists and people who were accused of witchery. So dates don't exactly match. Oh well. Also there are too many non-British people in a Scottish boarding school.
> 
> P.P.S. this work is not abandoned, it’s just going to take a while for me to write it, because I’m really slow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so, so sorry for my horrid French. I dropped the subject three years ago and all I can remember is a joke 'je ne mange pas six jours' from the timeless Russian novel.
> 
> Also: drink responsibly?

An ordered train of thoughts that began with “Merlin, can we all just go back to the castle already” and ended along the lines of “how can I manage to pick the Dungbombs out from D’Artagnan’s pocket without anyone noticing” crashed and diffused into thin air, leaving only one thought in his head, succinct and yet unable to explain a current situation Treville found himself in.

_You?_

“Professor Richelieu,” Louis cried brightly and firmly shook his hand. “I’m so happy to see you here!”

Professor? Professor?! Since when had he become a Professor?!

“Treville,” he felt a barely noticeable poke to his side, and then he heard a quiet whisper that was more of a cold hiss. “You _did_ read the brochure, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Treville replied absently to Anne and clenched his fists, barely stopping himself from grabbing Richelieu’s shirtfront and starting grilling him in front of the entire school. And Merlin is a witness; Treville had a great load of questions.

How is he connected to Beauxbatons?

Why is he here?

What is he doing here?

But above all else, Treville was interested in just one thing.

 _What the f_ —

“Professor Habsburg; it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

As Richelieu’s lips were touching Anne’s hand, Treville had time to realise that he was angry. And out of the corner of his eye he saw D’Artagnan digging the Dungbomb out of his pocket. For a fleeting second a desire to see Richelieu covered from head to toe in guano fought vehemently with the last remnants of common sense and was, to Treville’s disappointment, defeated.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned with the barest movement of his lips and with an _Evanesco_ got rid of that scum.

“Professor Treville.” Richelieu lips twitched in a derisive half-smile.

He had his hand outstretched. His face was unreadable, eyes carefully yet indifferently were studying Treville.

Treville finally gathered his wits and shook the outstretched palm. It was dry and cool to touch, burning him like a scorching metal.

“Erm,” his anger vanished. Probably to the same place where had plunged all of his coherent thoughts just minutes before.

He didn’t remember even a half of his vocabulary still, but his mind mercifully gave him the _right_ words that instantly disappeared like ripples in the water.

“Welcome to Hogwarts.”

 

* * *

 

Probably a whole eternity later the delegation from Durmstrang finally arrived: stoic and inauspicious students clad in dark-blue cloth. After exchanging pleasantries with headmaster Varsac — _Vargas, Treville!_ — at last, he climbed the stairs leading to the Great Hall. Richelieu’s presence felt like a searing rake prodding at his skin.

It was catastrophically too late to switch places with De Foix when Treville realised that the person sitting next to him wasn’t Habsburg but Richelieu.

De Foix didn’t even bat an eyelash at the sight of Richelieu’s red robes. Treville bet the bastard read that dratted brochure, because he wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

“Good evening, De Foix,” Richelieu greeted him pleasantly. “It’s been quite a while since we last saw each other.”

“Hasn’t it indeed,” De Foix said and as soon as he returned to his seat, he started a lively conversation with the librarian, leaving Treville with no escape.

Treville sent a furious look at Anne. She was busy interpreting Vargas what Louis was trying to tell him with punctuational success.

“Why don’t you try burgundy wine, Professor Treville.”

Treville closed his eyes and imagined jinxing Richelieu. With some very nasty jinx and a Bat-Bogey Hex for good measure. When he was satisfied with the result, he opened his eyes and found himself looking straight into Richelieu’s, pale and bleak.

Richelieu’s eyes were the same; grey and large like owl’s, hidden under thin translucent eyelids with a web of red and purple capillaries. However, after all these years, Treville could read absolutely nothing in them.

Then again, it wasn’t surprising. After all, there had to be something that changed in him since their last meeting.

“I don’t want it,” he informed Richelieu dryly, stabbing untouched apple pie with the fork, as if the pie was the sole reason of Captain’s sudden loss of appetite.

“If my memory serves me right…” Richelieu put down his cutlery with soft and distinctive clink.

“It does not,” Treville corrected him, barely keeping his tone calm, and continued to pick at his pie.

“…You like it.”

Strictly speaking, to Treville’s great disappointment, Richelieu was right. He didn’t try the wine out of sheer spite, because unlike Richelieu Treville hadn’t changed at all. Maybe he became a touch more patient and reserved, but he was still an idiot. Any person who possessed at least some shreds of sanity would have given a notice for a year-long holiday the moment Richelieu had crossed the threshold of Hogwarts.

Treville refused to remember under which circumstances it was discovered that he liked burgundy wine. With diligent and convincing self-persuasion, Treville could even tried to pretend that he forgot all about it.

“I hate burgundy wine. It’s bad for your digestion,” Treville replied, adamant. Apple pie on his plate resembled fine powder.

It was only when Louis involved Richelieu in a discussion about recent ban on manticore hunting, Treville could finally breathe freely.

For the umpteenth time this evening Treville regretted that in the Great Hall elves didn’t serve strong alcohol. Of course, he could carry a flask but right now nothing but a decent-sized cask would cut it for him. Or an enchanted bottomless goblet of Firewhiskey. It didn’t have to be enchanted or of Firewhiskey, but the key word was ‘bottomless’.

What the hell was Richelieu doing at Hogwarts? How has he managed to become the Headmaster of Beauxbatons? Why wasn’t he the First Minister of the French wizarding government or something?

 _‘But the main question, Jean Treville, is,’_ whispered a very annoying voice in his head, _‘why are you so bothered? You haven’t seen him for, what, twenty years? And you know that it’s not his presence that drives you round the bend but the fact that even after twenty years he still can make you lose your self-control at the drop of the hat…’_

His thoughts that had suddenly reappeared in his head wandered in a very wrong direction. His already dampened mood was now rapidly falling to an absolute zero.

Treville himself was walking in a direction that was most unwise. He had to properly talk with that Vargas who seemed even more suspicious than Richelieu; he had to write a resignation letter to Louis; or he could try and steal a Time-Turner to travel back a few hours and turn the Beauxbatons’ carriage back to France and then Obliviate himself, so he could continue to live a normal and relatively peaceful life.

Instead of all these right and logical things, Treville was forcing his way through a tumultuous crowd of students, looking for a thin figure clad in red.

Treville managed to catch up to him right at the doors to the Great Hall.

“Professor Richelieu,” he called, sounding impeccably polite.

Richelieu turned around and motioned his students to leave without him.

“You have questions, Professor?” Treville didn’t let him finish and grabbed Richelieu’s elbow, dragging him into a corridor, away from the crowd.

“What the hell?” he finally voiced a question that had been on the tip of his tongue since the beginning of the evening.

Richelieu neatly extricated himself from Treville’s tight grip and took a step back.

“I’m afraid, I don’t fully understand what you mean by that. Would you care to elaborate?”

“Don’t play a fool, it doesn’t suit you.” Treville finally lost the last shreds of self-control he'd been clutching onto for the entire evening. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about!”

“I’m the headmaster of Beauxbatons, Treville,” Richelieu replied dryly as he smoothed out his creased sleeve. “You are the Defence Against Dark Arts Professor and, if Louis Bourbon hasn’t lied to me, the Head of Gryffindor as well. And may I just say, it’s absolutely unsurprising.”

“Don’t tell me that you decided to settle down and dedicate your career to educating young French talents.” Treville huffed in disbelief.

“Are you surprised that I’m not a Minister?” Asked Richelieu archly.

“You don’t do anything without a reason.” If there’s something Treville knew for sure, it was that.

“Well, how would you know?” Richelieu suddenly snapped.

Treville opened his mouth to fire back and faltered. Indeed, why was he so sure that Richelieu at Hogwarts was a bad sign. May be in the past twenty years he’d changed, left his ambitions…

His inner voice laughed loudly at that thought, and Treville wholeheartedly agreed with it. That was equivalent to assuming that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan didn’t break rules.

“You were spying for Marie de’ Medici,” Treville finally said. One way or another, it always boiled down to that.

“I was spying _on_ Marie de’ Medici!” Richelieu hissed. “And—”

“Stop,” Treville put a finger to his lips. Richelieu followed the motion, and his eyes darkened.

They darkened to that particular shade when things wandered in a very wrong direction.

Treville looked down and caught a sight of sharp jaw, pale lips and only by a force of will did he manage to look at Richelieu in the eyes.

A many-legged shadow flashed by. Treville turned around.

“You four!” he barked. “Come out, I can see you.”

From behind the column stepped grim-looking Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan.

“What are you doing here?” To his own surprise, Treville wasn’t as angry as he ought to be.

“We…” D’Artagnan shrugged. “We were having an evening walk after dinner.”

“Mingling with the guests,” Aramis added.

There was still time until the curfew so Treville admitted his defeat.

“Get out of my sight.”

The culprits decided against trying their Head’s patience and instantaneously disappeared. Treville turned back to Richelieu.

“If you are planning on some clever scheme of yours…”

“To, what, storm Hogwarts?” Richelieu looked somewhere between annoyed and amused as if he couldn’t decide whether he should be laughing or shouting.

“Considering our past history, don’t blame my suspiciousness!” Treville pounded his fist against the wall. Down on him fell a centuries-worth cloud of dust.

“Considering our past history, I forgot that you are so stubborn.” Richelieu bit back, folding his hands across the chest

The conversation was approaching the dead end with the same speed as a dragon draws its breath to incinerate you.

A Junior Ravenclaw slipped between then and looked back in surprise as he saw two grown men who reached a point in an argument, where both sides want to continue arguing, but neither have anything to say. So these two grown men just stood there, trying to stare each other down. The Junior Ravenclaw’s name was Dominique Cassini, and there was nothing particularly interesting about him apart from the fact that he had permanently dreadful grades in Defence Against Dark Arts (‘Dreadful’).

“What do you want in Hogwarts, Richelieu?” Treville asked tiredly. He wanted to end this as soon as possible, so he could go back to his office and finally drink himself into oblivion to discover the next morning that Richelieu was never here, and this horrid hallucination was caused by some fetid brew from Emily.

“Other than to judge the tournament and support my future champion — nothing,” Richelieu replied sharply. He turned around and saw a couple of his students waiting for him in the corridor, craning their necks. Annoyed, he pursed his lips. “Have you finished? My students are waiting for me.”

“Yes,” Treville finally said. “Yes, I have.”

“Marvellous,” Richelieu looked almost disappointed and quickly walked away towards his kids.

 _‘Marvellous, indeed’_ Treville thought absently as he watched the back clad in red dissolving in the pool of the same crimson.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he had wanted to ask Richelieu about in the first place.

 

* * *

 

“The headmaster, ha!”

The glass clanked against the wood. A splash and a whi curse: half of the bottle spilt on the table and some important papers.

“He’s going to judge the tournament, as if. Over my dead body.” Treville downed the Firewhiskey. The glass he was holding in his hand wasn’t bottomless or enchanted, but the collection of alcohol in his office and the adjoined bedroom was impressive, and Treville was planning on getting very and very drunk this evening.

He had a long night ahead for that.

“Two months,” he continued, addressing no one in particular. “Two months all was as well as it is humanly possible in this madhouse. I almost got my hopes up that Hogwarts wouldn’t embarrass itself as it inevitably does; that the four idiots would graduate and the corridors would be quiet once again. But no. No.”

Treville felt a slight pang of hunger. Richelieu had stared at him for the entire evening, and Treville had been so angry and high-strung that he couldn’t swallow a single bite.

“Merlin, you tell me, no, I’m just curious,” a mummified apple was discovered at the bottom of the drawer. “What have I done in my whole life to deserve this?”

He tried so hard to forget all of this. And of course, as soon as he foolishly thought that he finally did, Fortuna decided that he was asking for too much and instantly smacked him on the head with a lead hammer of reality.

“Am I asking for too much?”

In his mind, Treville asked the Hogwarts Castle to drop something on Richelieu’s head as he would be walking down the corridor. Or for a step to suddenly disappear under his foot so he would fall down the stairs. Something, anything to absolve Treville from the upcoming months of his misery.

“And he’s absolutely the same, you see,” Treville mournfully complained into space. “He didn’t change a single bit, that bastard. How’s that fair?”

The space tactfully kept its opinion to itself.

 

* * *

 

It was a very bad idea.

“It is a very bad idea.” D’Artagnan said.

“We checked last night: there’s nothing there, some meretricious spell for decoration. It’s not like Bourbon really did cast something nasty,” Aramis tried to calm him down.

Well, they had almost bumped into Bloody Baron who’d felt like clanking and groaning in the Great Hall that night, but really, it was nothing too out of line. The things we do for our friends.

“Yeah, and Habsburg did all the job for him. You cross the line and boom — you are a pig,” Porthos laughed albeit not too loudly — the Professor of Transfiguration hadn’t finished her breakfast yet.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to participate?”

“Because you don’t have a letter of recommendations for the Auror Office,” Athos repeated patiently for, what it felt like, a thousandth time. “And, unlike the rest of us, you don’t play Quidditch.”

D’Artagnan picked at the piece of parchment in his hands nervously.

“In the worst case you’ll just have a pigtail or something,” Athos added, holding out a vial with the potion. “But I’m almost sure that everything will go smoothly.”

“If this gets me killed. I’m going to take it very personally.” D’Artagnan glanced over his friends and gulped the potion down only to cough and splutter a moment later. “Merlin! Athos, what the hell is this?”

“Are you worried about the taste or its magical properties?” Athos bristled and snatched the emptied bottle. He’d been brewing the potion for the entire night, fighting sleep with his supply of amber liquid of unidentified nature, so he was in the most terrible of moods.

“Ready?” Aramis clapped D’Artagnan on his shoulder.

“Not really, to be honest.”

“Well, too late,” Porthos pushed him towards the goblet.

D’Artagnan staggered, took a couple of baby steps and then drew a deep breath and jumped across the line. With a relieved sigh he threw a crumpled piece of parchment with a messily scribbled ‘Charlie D’Artagnan, Hogwarts’ and stepped back. The flames flickered like ripples in water.

‘Thank Merlin,’ Athos thought. Until the end he’d been confident that even if D’Artagnan succeeded and the potion would work, he’d get his ears transformed into melons. But, as it turned out, Charles D’Artagnan was an incredibly lucky bastard. His ears remained intact and even in the right place on the sides of his now smug face, where they belonged.

The Gryffindor table erupted with an approving round of applause.

“D’Artagnan!” Constance waved her hand excitedly. “Well done!”

D’Artagnan squared his shoulders and waved back, scarlet with abashment. Athos rolled his eyes. D’Artagnan’s chances were dead in the water, and yet he was persistent in his attempts to woo the Hufflepuff girl.

“Can’t believe it,” Lucy commented. “It really did work.”

“I have no idea what are you talking about,” Aramis smiled brightly.

“Everyone knows that D’Artagnan is a half-blood.” Lucy said with disapproval. “It’s against the rules.”

Aramis looked around in a mock surprise.

“You see anyone complaining?”

“Leave it, Lucy,” Porthos said offhandedly, loading up his plate with eggs. “Why do you even care? Your parents forbade you from participating anyway.”

She pierced the four of them with a scathing look and walked away.

“Don’t rouse her,” Athos grumbled, picking at his breakfast unenthusiastically. “She’s going to be insufferable. Today are these blasted Quidditch trials.”

“Don’t you think that they will cancel the season because of the tournament?” Porthos asked.

“I don’t think that Louis will have the guts for it, taking into the account that only Quidditch saves your,” Athos jabbed Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan each after each with a fork with a speared sausage on it, “and Hogwarts’ arses from the Board of Governors. The only thing we can truly pride on, after all.”

Into the Great Hall flowed the Beauxbatons students. Richelieu entered the hall behind them and organised them into a line. One by one they dropped their slips of parchment in the goblet; the fire turned crimson and emitted bright-red sparks.  

“Any idea what that Richelieu was doing with Treville last night,” Porthos whispered, nodding towards Richelieu who smiled thinly as he was watching his students.

“The Captain looked furious,” D’Artagnan shook his head, still elated with his small victory at the Hufflepuff front. “He didn’t even dock points from us.”

“Not that furious to talk in his very calm voice.” Porthos noted.

“Skrewts with them, it’s none of our business,” Athos said dully. The last glass (or five) paid off in terrible headache.

“It’s our business because there’s no way that this Richelieu knows our Captain,” D’Artagnan retorted.

“Then he’d known him before the Captain was ours.” Athos muttered, drifting off to sleep. Damn these trials. Why even bother if he’s going to pick the old team and a couple of newbies to replace graduated players?

Finally, all Beauxbatons students slipped their names in the goblet, Richelieu led them back out of the hall in the same ordered line.

“Je suis désolée!” a fair-headed girl with large blue eyes startled Athos who woke up from his slumber and spilt pumpkin pie juice all over his breakfast. “Il était accidentelle!”

“No worries,” Aramis put on his most charming smile which, in Athos’ opinion, made him look like an idiot, but for some reason all the girls bought it. “ _Scourgify!_ See? As sound as a bell.”

“Would you mind ringing your bells elsewhere? I’m trying to eat breakfast,” Athos grumbled grouchily, sneaking someone else’s bowl of porridge. The morning had started exceptionally unfortunately.

“I will mind. Quite a bit,” the eyes of the fair-head twinkled with mischief. Her English was fairly good for a girl who had gushed apologies in her mother tongue moments before.

“I insist.” Athos frowned as he had no clue what this French girl wanted from him.

“Or you can start a conversation with foreign students,” she smiled with a corner of her mouth. “The tournament exists for establishing international relations. I’m more than ready to establish them.”

“Is it a challenge?”

“What would you do if it was?”

“If Athos de la Fere isn’t flirting with veela, then I don’t know what flirting is,” D’Artagnan whispered to Porthos.

“Rubbish,” Porthos muttered back. “She can’t stand him.”

Aramis looked at his friend with a resigned look of a patient mentor.

“One day, my friend, we are going to sit down and I will explain women to you.”

“Aramis, I don’t need—”

“Ninon! Quit flirting with English boys!” A dark-haired girl with predatory features neared their table.

“Whose fault is that that they don’t flirt with you themselves,” Ninon replied and pulled a stray golden lock back from her face. “Neither do the French boys. This is why you are always single, Milady.”

“Because I don’t flirt with riff-raff,” she countered.

“With riff-raff?” Athos interrupted.

“Also with commoners who can’t even have breakfast without flooding the entire table with juice,” Milady measured him with a dismissive look.

“ _Commoners?_ ” Athos bristled with indignation.

“That counts as a compliment from Milady.” Ninon pulled the sleeve of her friend’s red robe with annoyance. “Be polite, you are making a bad impression…”

“Girls, don’t linger,” someone hurried them from behind. Richelieu reached the table and measured them with a very careful and calculated look. “Please, do establish international relations elsewhere.”

“Good morning,” Athos greeted reservedly, giving the headmaster of Beauxbatons a calculating look in return. Richelieu looked awfully suspicious, but you can’t evaluate people on a suspiciousness alone, save the idiot Felton.

“We’ve met.” Aramis added.

“I don’t recall,” Richelieu replied dryly. “Dépêchez-vous!”

Ninon graced them with a haughty nod and left. Milady followed shortly, without glancing back once.

“You know what,” Athos said thoughtfully, watching the Beauxbatons leave. “He has no accent at all.”

“He’s the Headmaster, they don’t appoint idiots,” Aramis brushed off, keeping his eyes on the back of Beauxbatons girls. “Have all of the Durmstrang lot put their names in?”

“Early morning,” Athos answered. He snatched away a cup of untouched coffee from some Third Year and after a massive gulp rose from the table, resolute. “Let’s go to the pitch.”

The third year paid no heed to the loss of his morning beverage, fully immersed in a conversation about the previous week of lessons.

“Yesterday we had a lesson with Professor Treville,” Bazin sighed dreamily.

“I read in the ‘History of Quidditch’ that he used to be the Captain of ‘Tornados’” Mousqueton’s eyes, the boy whose coffee Athos stole, shined with a little alarming maniacal leam. “And during his last match he invented some feint that no one can repeat...”

“He _knows_ , see,” Bazin said emphatically. “He should be captaining the Aurors regiment. He is wasted here.”

“He’s cool,” Planchet concluded.

Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan exchanged glances and smirked.

Everyone loved the Defence Against Dark Arts lessons, or, to be more precise, everyone loved the Professor. Every student, however callous and dead-hearted, experienced a phase of unrestrained adoration for Professor Treville, no matter how fleeting that phase might be. The bewitchment usually lasted until Treville decided to arrange an unplanned test. The students were forced to fight against boggarts, Red Caps, sharp-toothed dugbogs and gigantic fishpeople. Meanwhile, the Professor, unperturbed, was drinking tea and reading the sports column in the Daily Prophet.

“Young and innocent souls,” Porthos snorted and swung the broom onto his shoulder. “Remember when he plied us with Emily’s cat piss and let the Red Caps and grindylows loose? Hoped that if we failed he could kick us out of his class…”

“Or the time when he hid the boggart inside our bedroom?”

“That was when you locked Professor Buckingham in the ladies’ room on the first floor.” Athos reminded them impassively.

“Ah, yeah…”

At the Great Hall’s entrance they ran into Professor Treville.

“Captain,” they waved at him.

“Don’t hide, Captain, everyone knows that you go to trials!”

“I go to trials because I need to supervise you so you don’t kill each other,” Treville was just about to turn behind the suit of armour, but was caught red-handed and with a resigned sigh joined them.

Athos had to admit that Treville did have a point.

“How are your lessons with the first years?” Athos asked innocently. Treville looked exactly like Athos felt: hangover, sleep deprived and angry at the entire world.

“Wonderful,” Treville sped up but they didn’t lag behind for long. “How are your non-verbal spells, de la Fere?”

“Wonderful.”

“M-m-m,” Treville drawled and Athos bit his tongue. Now trust Treville to lie in wait for him round the corner and hex him in front of everybody, Athos wouldn’t put it past his respected Head of House.

Honest and bluff Treville sometimes amazed with his skills at deception worthy of a true Slytherin when it came to knowledge assessments.

“Good choice, de la Fere.” Treville chuckled. “Chose the day for trials wisely; when everybody would be busy with the goblet. No one will get in the way.”

Merlin’s pants; Athos winced. Treville actually approved of his decisions. It’s about time to prepare will, leave his broom to his brother, because the Professor of Defence Against Dark Arts was set to kill him this coming week. Well, it wasn’t as if Athos didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t remember anything particularly grandeur that could be worthy of a personal vendetta.

The Inseparables headed for the pitch; Treville, after curtly wishing them good luck, climbed to the last row of seats in the stand in vain hopes to hide there. To trials came about a dozen of Gryffindors, the rest of the House sat on the stands and immediately surrounded its Head. To Athos’ surprise, among others who could potentially join the team, were a couple of third years whose conversation they heard during breakfast.

And, gulping gargoyles, what this idiot is doing—

“Bonnaire!” Aramis yelled. “What in the name of Merlin are you doing here?”

“Trying out for Beater,” he replied unflappably and winked at the girls sitting in the stands.

“Wonderful,” Athos said dryly. “The trial for Beaters is the first.”

The tryouts promised to be intense.

After an hour, a tantrum from Bonnaire, a fight with him Aramis started, twenty points docked by Treville who had to pull them apart, Athos was pleased with his choice. Flea hit the Bludger so ferociously that Porthos would have fallen from his broomstick if Aramis hadn’t caught him. A fourth year, Lucy, looked fragile but her aim was impeccable. Bonnaire was, to Athos’ secret disappointment, fairly decent, but he was so busy smiling at the girls in the stands that he didn’t see a Bludger coming. Treville, fearing another fight, stayed on the pitch, but Bonnaire left with his head raised high and a covey of girls who were planning on healing his bruised pride. Athos took note of Planchet who was so enamoured by Treville at breakfast. He was terrible with a bat, however he was very good at dodging Bludgers and could be a great Seeker.

For a Keeper Athos found Elaine Grimaud who saved all five penalties.

“Good luck, Grimaud!” Bazin shouted from the stands.

Grimaud turned out to be a grim and stern-looking third year with a thick head of black hair that she unsuccessfully tried to hide behind a kerchief. It came loose as soon as she flied towards the murky sky.

Athos took a liking to her immediately: Grimaud was calm, composed and talked very little. After she saved the last penalty by Athos, who put a spin on it, he nodded curtly: she was in the team.

“It means he likes you!” D’Artagnan hollered after her surprised and confused look. Athos snatched Flea’s bat and silently hit him on the head.

“Five points from Gryffindor!” Treville barked.

“Hey, why did you deck twenty points for the fight with Bonnaire and only five when it was me?” D’Artagnan cried but Treville had already left the pitch.

 

* * *

 

The dinner lasted for the eternity. Athos ate everything he could and everything he couldn’t, had time to try the dessert, but Louis was still talking to Vargas, relying on a prompt interpreting by Professor Habsburg.

Richelieu attempted to strike a conversation with Treville, but Captain only stared at his plate, holding his knife with such an expression like he wanted to use his cutlery on the Beauxbatons’ headmaster’s neck instead of his dinner.

 _‘How on earth do they know each other?’_ Athos wondered and judging by his friends, who were also dying of curiosity, the question wasn’t nagging at him alone.  

Finally, Louis talked to his heart’s content and rose from his seat. The Hall filled with a tense silence.

“The goblet almost made its decision,” he started with a boyish and youthful voice of his. “Until then, I’d like to introduce you the organisers of the Triwizard Tournament,” he cast his eyes down on a piece of parchment that Professor Habsburg absolutely did not put there. “Luca Sistini — Vatican’s International Confederation of Wizards’ representative of International Magical Cooperation Committee. And Harriet Stuart, Head of the Committee of Magical Games and Sport.”

The Hall clapped, polite and uninterested.

“When the champions’ names are called,” Bourbon continued, “I would ask them please to come up to the staff table and go through to the adjoined chamber where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

“Why doesn’t Vatican participate in the tournament?” Porthos asked.

“Vatican has only the History of Magic Institute and no school,” Flea whispered back. The Gryffindors who heard her exchanged puzzled looks: who was mad enough to study the most boring subject after graduating?

“You are going to miss it,” D’Artagnan hissed, white as sheet from agitation. The goblet’s flames flickered and trembled against still and warm air of the Great Hall.

When the icy-blue flames inside the goblet turned red and a charred piece of paper flattered out of it, Louis caught it awkwardly, careful not to burn his clumsy self.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” even childish voice of Louis Bourbon sounded strong and significant. “Christopher Rochefort.”

The boy got from his seat and walked to his headmaster and after receiving an encouraging pat on the shoulder, disappeared behind the door.

Meanwhile, Louis hurriedly caught another slip of parchment.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” he shouted, “is Anne de Breuil!”

“Oh, no!” Athos groaned. “Why it had to be her.”

The girl who insulted him at breakfast gracefully got on her feet and headed towards the staff table.

“Aramis, look!” Porthos nodded towards the Beauxbatons party. “Violent and fiery.”

The fair-headed Ninon, the champion’s friend, turned red from anger and stomped her beautiful small feet against the floor.

“Oh, Merlin,” D’Artagnan muttered.

The fire inside the goblet turned red one last time and with a tongue of flame shot out the last piece of parchment and the final shower of sparks. The Hogwarts stilled in anticipation, the candles dimmed and even dust stopped dancing in the air, waiting.

Louis caught it. There was a very long pause. And during that agonising pause, Athos knew everything he needed to know.

On Treville’s face, anxiety was followed by dread, then shock and after such tempestuous emotional turmoil, the realisation dawned on him.

 _‘Oh, Merlin.’_ Athos thought. _‘We are in trouble.’_

At last, Louis cleared his throat.

“Errr… The champion of Hogwarts is Charlie D’Artagnan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errr... sorry for language anachronisms? And anachronisms in general? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Like, normally I do try to keep my works historically accurate, but this fic is an exception because it's purely self-indulgent and borderline cracky.
> 
> Grammar&stylistics errors? Want to scream about trevilieu? Hit me up on [tumblr](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/)! We have a whole support group for you. 
> 
> Thoughts, questions, comments are, as always, greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, team. Thought you'd seen the last of me? Well, so did I but that's besides the point.  
> The chapter is long though. I leave it up to you to decide whether it's a good thing.  
> Every time you get where I was narrowly escaping dropping the f-bomb, you are very welcome to take a sip of your beverage of choice

Charlie D’Artagnan.

The Hogwarts champion is Charlie D’Artagnan.

Charlie bloody D’Artagnan.

Treville slowly let his breath out and palmed his face.

With his dumb luck, who else Bourbon could have drawn from the goblet?

“Professor Treville,” Anne said coldly, touching his elbow. “Please proceed with Mr D’Artagnan into the next room.”

 _‘He is lucky that Hogwarts was announced last,’_ Treville thought, as he made his way to the door, clenching his fists so tightly that the joints painfully throbbed. _‘Mordred knows, I would have throttled him on the spot if we’d been left alone there.’_

“What’s the matter, Professor?” Anne de Breuil raised her eyebrows in question.

“No clue.” Treville replied dryly and caught a sight of D’Artagnan. _‘Thirty points from Gryffindor,’_ he mouthed. _‘What? Why?’_ D’Artagnan flared. _‘Why?!’_ Treville almost lost his cool.

_These little sh—_

“It’s… It’s outrageous,” Vargas hissed, as soon as he and the headmasters along with Sistini and Stuart stormed into the room. “This is just most irregular!”

“Vargas, please calm down,” Harriet Stuart tried to reason him.

“Oh, I will, right after you will explain to me how this little pup,” Vargas pointed an accusing finger at D’Artagnan, “managed to put his name in the Goblet of Fire!”

“Hey!” The brat bristled. “I’m seventeen!”

Treville clasped his shoulder and dragged him back.

“For Merlin’s sake, Charlie, shut up and listen,” he growled quietly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anne said sharply. “It’s just a minor nuisance.”

“It’s just Hogwarts sabotaging the tournament!” Vargas started measuring the room in large strides, forcing others to take a step backwards, marking the territory of the rising argument, claiming the space as his own.

“You think that Hogwarts is sabotaging the tournament, Vargas?” Richelieu intervened in a silky tone. “It’s a very forward statement.”

Vargas stopped pacing and slowly turned to him, taking a slight step forward. Richelieu had always been tall, but because of his sometimes overly thin build, he seemed even taller and more intimidating. But at this moment, short and stocky Vargas looked very dangerous. Treville didn’t like it at all.

“Enough of your games,” Vargas seethed. “The fact remains: the half-blood became a champion. I demand an immediate investigation: was there a mistake with the Blood Line, if a student was able to breach it?”

Bourbon stood there, lost and clueless about what was happening.

 _‘What Blood Line?’_ he raised his confused eyes at Treville.

Anne saw that helpless look and closed her eyes for a fleeting second, trying to gather all of her seemingly endless self-control not to choke the respected headmaster of Hogwarts right on spot.

 _‘Merlin’s saggy left bollock,’_ Treville concluded grimly.

Treville once again revisited his mental list of excuses why he was still working here. The list turned out to be disappointingly short.

 _‘What are we going to do?’_ Anne looked at him.

 _‘No idea,’_ Treville shook his head.

“The Hogwarts walls make it impossible to cast appropriate spells,” he finally declared.

“Errr, Professor Treville is right,” Anne picked up. “Hogwarts renders null all the spells that determine students’ blood status.”

Louis exuded confidence and competence without the faintest idea of what was happening. And damn, Treville had to admit that he managed to do it pretty convincingly.

“Why hadn’t you warn us before the tournament began?”

“Dear Vargas, that is not our problem, and it’s the issue Hogwarts staff have to deal with,” Richelieu replied coldly, watching the Durmstrang’s headmaster with dislike. “I have heard about it.”

 _‘Have you really,’_ Treville thought.

“That’s the most unjust!” Vargas exploded. “If I knew, I would—”

Richelieu’s eyes gleamed dangerously.

“Hm,” he drawled. “You would what exactly, Vargas? As far as I know, every student in Durmstrang is pure-blood.”

“We will never know now, won’t we, Richelieu? Since I haven’t been informed about such idiosyncrasy of Hogwarts” Vargas said suddenly softly, glaring daggers at Richelieu. “Why do you let the mud-bloods participate, Louis?”

“Well, everyone knows that only pure-bloods are allowed,” Louis mumbled. “And—”

“Hogwarts has the least number of pure-blood students,” Anne interrupted. “It’s a much smaller number compared to your number of candidates. I doubt that it’s mentioned in the rules that only pure-bloods are allowed to participate.”

“Of course it’s not, it’s a common knowledge!” Vargas’ low growl reminded Treville of a hissing gargoyle.

What a stuck up privileged cretin.

“The champions often have to, if not break the rules, then find ways to cross the lines”, Treville said, unbelievably agreeing with his own words. “Charlie D’Artagnan has done just that.”

“Louis is the headmaster of the host school, Vargas. And he knows this castle better than you and I combined. If he says that Hogwarts and its magic stopped him from doing what is expected to be done, then it’s true.” Richelieu sent a sidelong glance at Treville. He knew perfectly well that Hogwarts was shamelessly bluffing, and yet he decided to play along their ridiculous charade, and it was unnerving.

“After all our meetings and negotiations, little I expected such carelessness!” Vargas raged. “I’m ready to gather all my students and leave. I shall lodge complaint with the International Confederation of Wizards!”

“All the champions are bound by a magical contract,” Sistini objected. “As a Confederation representative, I assure you that no one will consider this case.”

“Then I will appeal to Wizards’ Council!”

“The Chairman will not consider your appeal either,” Stuart said in turn. “There was no infringement of the rules, and Anne is right — the host school is entitled to let all students to participate unless the rules state otherwise. The decree of—”

“The Durmstrang will just withdraw from the tournament!”

“That would be unduly, Vargas!” Louis interfered nervously. “You are just overreacting—”

“You think I’m overreacting?” Vargas bridled. “Hogwarts has just confessed to committing sabotage!”

“I can’t say that Armand is complaining, Vargas,” Sistini said softly.

_‘Now, hang on a second.’_

Treville was too hung up on ‘Armand’, so he heard only the end of negotiations.

“—I hope that the goblet has chosen the champion of Durmstrang fairly.” Richelieu put a thin hand on his champion’s shoulder. “I’m sure that Mademoiselle de Breuil will make Beauxbatons proud. I think that Louis has the same confidence in his champion. And if nothing can be done, perhaps we should stop wasting time? Unless you have a better offer.”

Vargas fell silent, he was positively livid. Richelieu surveyed him with a detached curiosity and then looked around.

“Well, since the argument has exhausted itself,” he turned to Sistini. “There are instructions to be read out to the champions, aren’t there, Luca?”

‘ _Luca. Dear Luca, why don’t you stuff your instructions down—’_

“Ah, thank you, Armand. The first task is designed to test your daring…”

“Are you quite alright, Professor?” Richelieu asked with a detached concern. “Your teeth make a peculiar sound.”

 _‘Bastard,’_ Treville decided darkly. _‘One more word, and my teeth will be your primarily concern, because I’m a hair’s breadth from biting your head off with these very teeth.’_

“I’m afraid you have a peculiar hearing condition, Professor Richelieu,” Treville said under his breath.

 _‘Please, stop this absurd farce,’_ Richelieu narrowed his eyes imperceptibly.

_‘What do you want?’_

_‘I believe, we have already talked about it.’_

_‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’_

“—the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.” Sistini finished.

“Have you memorised everything?” Treville shook D’Artagnan by his shoulder, as he himself hadn’t caught a single word.

“Yes, sir,” D’Artagnan staggered slightly but remained standing.

Why in the name of Merlin’s pants Richelieu was helping Hogwarts? Treville didn’t have the time to deal with two headaches simultaneously: scold D’Artagnan for his stupidity and desperately hope that he wouldn’t have to pick up the pieces of the idiot by the end of the year, and try to figure out what game Richelieu was playing.

Come to think about it, Richelieu wasn’t just a headache, he’s a real pain in the—

“Well, I think that is it for today,” Louis clasped his hands, barely keeping the usual cheer in his voice. “Luca, I’d be glad if you stayed in Hogwarts tonight; it’s getting quite late. Harriet, you are always welcomed here, but I reckon your spouse is waiting you at home. My congratulations, by the way.”

“You are right, Louis,” Harriet smiled, and her face softened. “Thank you.”

“Until tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen,” Vargas bid his goodbyes coldly and made a hasty exit, beckoning Rochefort with a tilt of his head.

“Good evening,” Richelieu again shot another eloquent look at Treville’s back which — again — eloquently ignored him. Then he said something quickly to his champion in French, and they left.

“Thank Merlin it’s over,” Louis said with a sigh of relief, when the door closed behind Richelieu. “Anne, please stay for a moment—”

“D’Artagnan, to my office, now.” Treville called the boy who had been attempting a quiet escape. “Oh, no. Those thirty points from Gryffindor is the least of your problems.”

“Can’t say that I regret it, sir,” the brat could barely stop himself from grinning.

“For now,” Treville promised, and D’Artagnan suddenly wasn’t in a mood for smiling.

If he was perfectly honest with himself, he didn’t regret the Goblet’s choice either. He saw with his very own eyes that Bonnaire had put his name into the Goblet. But D’Artagnan didn’t need to know about it.

At the very bottom of his blackened and hardened heart, Treville was a little bit proud of D’Artagnan. The Hogwarts champion was from his House; a half-blood with no money or influential parents who had to achieve everything all by himself. At the very, very bottom where Treville never bothered go looking.

Predominantly, of course, he was livid.

“I won’t even bother naming the number of rules you’ve broken,” Treville stopped thinking that out of the four of them there was only one culprit sometime during Year Three; they stopped convincing him that was the case roughly during the same time. “Or telling you what will happen if everyone finds out that everything Professor Habsburg and I have conjured up is a big pile of dragon dung.”

“Yes, Professor,” Charlie D’Artagnan was trying really hard to look guilty and failed.

“Trust me, I personally have nothing against half-bloods participating, Merlin, muggle-borns can have a shot at it for all I care, but everything boils down to politics,” Treville winced like from tooth-pain. “So Merlin forbid anyone finds out about what you’ve done.”

D’Artagnan’s face dimmed, and Treville groaned, plonking himself down in the armchair. “Yeah, of course, what am I talking about? Of course you couldn’t furtively threw in your name at night, you had to do it in front of the entire school. Okay, fine, Merlin forbid anyone to find out that Louis didn’t even know that there had to be a Blood Line around the Goblet, so it could be blamed on your incredulous stupidity. Understood, D’Artagnan?”

“Of course, Professor.”

“Go to bed,” Treville could hear that somebody was trying to cast an eavesdropping spell behind the door. “All of you! Get out of my sight and away from my door.”

“Good evening, Professor.”

Treville slumped back on his seat and smiled faintly, without realising he was doing it himself.

Those insolent brats.

“Oh, and also…” the boy turned around. “Good job.”

D’Artagnan grinned from brattish ear to equally brattish ear.

 

* * *

November was like any other Novembers had been at Hogwarts: dreadful, cold, and damp.

Athos was juggling studies and Quidditch trainings — it was his first and only year as Captain, and he didn’t want to lose face.

And on top of that, D’Artagnan became a champion which was amazing, but the problem, even divided into four, was enormous. They didn’t know anything about the upcoming task, which was approaching faster than a bitten in the arse hippogriff. Athos, as being the most clear-headed, and, to be completely honest, the only sane one of the four of them, felt that his head was about to burst from all those problems that just kept piling up.

As usual, the last Friday lesson was Potions, just before the training, with Aramis and Beauxbatons. When the foreigners joined in, there were just a little more people, but the tasks for some reason had become thrice as hard, as everyone had been slacking because of the Tournament and now were desperate to catch up.

Nothing was being caught up, and the current academic achievements of one Athos de la Fere were succinctly personified by black slime, gurgling in his cauldron. The sludge was rapidly thickening and promised a very low grade from Professor Allaman.

“Crap,” Athos murmured, darting his eyes between the blackboard and his cauldron in panic. “Crap, crap, crappity crap.”

“You forgot the valerian root, hurry up!” Aramis whispered loudly, hastily chopping up the roots to throw in Athos’ potion.

Black sludge lightened up immediately and stopped reminiscing cement that was going through existential crisis.

“My friend, you need to relax,” Aramis suggested, randomly dripping nasty-smelling bile in his own cauldron. Strange slime bubbled once and turned unnaturally yellow.

“Yes, dead easy,” Athos deadpanned and stirred his sludge. “Aren’t you going to finish yours?”

“We are not making anything useful anyway,” Aramis sighed and put his cauldron aside to make eyes at Beauxbatons students.

“It’s been two weeks, and your non-verbal flirting hasn’t borne any fruit yet,” Athos grumbled testily. “You are wasting your time. Could’ve trained with Porthos.”

“You are wasting your nerves,” Aramis shot back and winked at a fair-headed beauty that was sitting at the front desk. “The first match is Ravenclaw, and their Chasers suck. Seeker is a slow idiot.”

He was silent for a moment, and when the fair-head kept ignoring him, what she had been doing for the past two weeks anyway, Aramis turned to face Athos.

“Porthos and I, we don’t get along lately,” he admitted reluctantly.

“You don’t?” Athos repeated nervously, reading Allaman’s scrawl on the blackboard: “Be careful: upon stirring the potion anti-clockwise, an explosion may occur”. After averting the impending catastrophe just in time, Athos attempted to continue their small talk. “Porthos and you?”

Declaring that Aramis and Porthos fell out was akin to claiming that Earth was flat (they were not muggles, for Merlin’s sake), or that Professor Habsburg gave “Outstanding”, or something as absurd. Such situation was absolutely impossible.

May be this is why the four of them worked out so well: it was impossible to have a fight with D’Artagnan, and even if it were to happen, he’d come to make peace first; Aramis and Porthos had always been an inseparable whole, and Athos just tried to stay away and not to blunder their friendship.

Something fragile between the two of them had broken to the point where Aramis was actually talking about it, and Athos didn’t even notice the change. Not that he was especially well-versed in that kind of things.

“May be,” dear Merlin, he was the _last_ person to talk about such problems to, “you should, you know… talk?”

Aramis wrinkled his nose.

“We don’t… talk. The four of us do mischiefs; the two of us train, sometimes the three of us when you are not busy staring at the textbooks; together we chat girls up or prank Buckingham. And if something goes wrong, we ignore the problem until eventually it just goes away.”

“The bell rings in five minutes,” Allaman announced. “Finish up.”

“So... you what?” Athos was unsuccessfully trying to understand the whole thing. “You exchange one thing for another? Instead of hanging out with Porthos, you make eyes at girls?”

Aramis handed in the phial to Allaman and hoisted the bag over his shoulder.

“I need to pass the time,” he replied. “Let’s go. The training is in an hour, and we need to get changed.

They didn’t have the time to talk later that day.

And also, Athos completely forgot that it was the last training before the match, and he totally wasn’t prepared for the events to unfold that way.

Athos didn’t regret his choice made way back in September: Flea and Lucy got on like a house on fire and were getting better and better and flew probably faster than Bludgers themselves. Planchet was quite an adequate Seeker. Grimaud lacked confidence and experience, but those came with practice.

The only problem was, he couldn’t speak to her properly.

“Err, good job,” Athos said when they landed on the ground for a short break.

“Uh-uh,” Grimaud picked at the dirt on her boot.

“If you are afraid that you are going to get hit by a Bludger, don’t worry; they don’t really target Keepers.

“Hm,” she nodded more interested in the contents of her bag than in the conversation with her team Captain, which was simultaneously unnerving and annoying.

“You’ve done well today,” he tried again after the training was over. “I think we are going to win.”

“Ah-ha…”

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

“She said that it’s very nice of you to say that,” Planchet explained, as he walked to them.

“Is she mute and can’t speak for herself?” Athos bristled.

Planchet’s face changed colour. He picked up his and Grimaud’s brooms and left the pitch, radiating righteous and silent offence for all the weak and vulnerable, despite the fact that Grimaud towered over tiny Planchet for a good foot and half.

“What have I said wrong again?” Athos complained into space.

Flea and Lucy exchanged looks.

“Just leave it, Athos,” Lucy said gently. “Grimaud understands all of your sayings perfectly well, she’s just—

“—She’s just shy,” Flea finished. “Let’s go.”

The first match of the year ended in a total defeat of Gryffindor.

“We’ll catch up in the next one, guys,” Athos tried to console his team.

Upset Grimaud melted into tears.

He wasn’t very good at this consoling thing, after all.

“Don’t be upset, you lot,” Constance, wrapped up in a red and gold banner, gave out the sweets she brought. “Ravenclaw has no chance against the Slytherins, and you know, you and Slytherin—”

Athos agreed with her. He was willing to brew an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis and ply the entire team with it if it meant winning against Slytherin.

He was more than confident that Treville shared his sentiment.

Athos got delayed because he had been helping Constance to get out of the Gryffindor flag and accidentally ripped her favourite robe with the Severing Charm. She obviously got upset immensely and obviously didn’t blame him for his sloppy work. Athos felt _horrible_.

His mood had plunged into inconceivable depth, and Athos dragged his grim self to the Gryffindor tower, dreaming of nothing but a warm bed.

He heard muffled voices from the bedroom.

“What the hell?” Porthos pressed.

“Because I’m tired of your constant nagging,” Aramis replied, raising his voice.

D’Artagnan’s eyes gleamed worriedly from the farthest corner of the room.

“I think something is wrong,” he informed Athos.

Athos lay on the bed and stared at the dark plush of the ceiling.

“Porthos, I don’t care—”

A good friend would’ve tried to take the heat off the situation, and if Athos wasn’t so upset, angry, and tired, he would’ve just banged their stubborn heads together and locked in the bedroom alone, so they could finally figure their dragon’s dung out.

“You think _I_ don’t care?—”

“They need to talk,” D’Artagnan said with conviction and moved from his seat, but Athos shook his head.

“They’ll work it out,” Athos argued tiredly. “At least it can wait until morning.”

“It’s entirely your own business—”

“Do you know what are they fighting about?” D’Artagnan whispered, but Athos shook his head again: don’t know, don’t care, they are idiots.

“Exactly, and my business is none of _your_ business!”

“Shut up now,” Athos grumbled and covered his head with a pillow. “Squabble later.”

Breakfast on the next day was even worse than the match. It seemed that the entire school, and all of the guests gathered in the Great Hall, discussing the infamous match.

D’Artagnan had left early because he needed to hand in the essay to Professor Emilie; Porthos and Aramis ate their food in heavy silence and went their separate ways, leaving Athos to have breakfast in complete solitude.

“Anyone’s sitting there?” girl’s voice asked.

“No,” Athos grumbled and moved aside, so the girl could take a seat.

“Thank you,” a full plate clattered against the wooden table, and heavy robe rustled. “Quidditch was great yesterday.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” when Athos saw who sat next to him, he forcefully stabbed bacon with a fork. He didn’t need that girl to make fun of him. Apparently, she was called Milady by her friends or something.

Milady curled her lips in a derisive smile, and it made Athos even angrier.

“Oh, stop behaving like a child!”

“Keep quiet!”

Athos startled and shifted his gaze to the Professor’s table: Treville and Richelieu were sitting on the opposite sides of the table, yet still managed somehow to exchange whispered pleasantries.

“He’s weird,” Athos finally said, pointing his fork at the Headmaster of Beauxbatons.

“Hm,” Milady said incomprehensibly, chewing on her eggs. “Your food in England is disgusting.”

“Has he been keeping school for long?” Athos pretended he didn’t hear the jab. The curiosity was eating him up quicker than Milady was destroying her breakfast, so the time to find out a little bit more about Richelieu was exceedingly limited.

“I don’t know. He’s been the Headmaster long before I started school,” she shrugged. “The upper-years did say that he brought school to order quickly.”

“His English is very good.” Athos continued.

“Well, that’s hardly surprising,” Milady downed her milk and rose from the table. “He finished Hogwarts.”

 

* * *

The castle was enormous. After seven years of studying and over twenty years of working, Treville still hadn’t managed to explore the whole of it. Of course, he suspected that four idiots managed to succeed during their first year, whereas Treville himself didn’t know even the half of the passages.

In short, Hogwarts was enormous. It didn’t explain why the bloody buggering buck Treville couldn’t avoid Richelieu

One wonderful and fresh Noverber day, when the air was as crisp as the last falling leaves he could crush between his fingers, Treville wasn’t quite admiring the autumnal beauty of Hogwarts. Treville was cursing Anne Habsburg seven ways to Sunday because she set up a demented schedule in attempt to fit in a sesquialtera of usual number of students. The dungeons, where Treville had spent the entire morning, stunk of apples, and he screwed up his face. Tariq was brewing Amortentia for Year Six again.

“Good morning, Professor Treville.”

He startled and was a hair away from dropping an aquarium for grindylow, whom Treville named Marsac.

“The bloody buggering buck are you doing here?” Treville quickened his pace, but the bastard with his ridiculously long limbs apparently didn’t get a hint and easily kept pace with him.

“Vargas took my classroom and I was reading lecture at Professor Allaman’s class,” Richelieu replied mildly.

“I’m sure Tariq Allaman was out of it,” Treville panted, switching into a canter.

“Are you late for something?” Richelieu inquired.

“For class,” Captain cut out without slowing down.

“We are headed the same way.”

Treville was covering Divination for Year Seven because Emilie got a vision from her herbal concoctions.

He would have to walk upstairs with Richelieu for seven floors. Seven circles of Hell. Treville felt an unquenchable desire to bash his head against the wall.

“Nine.”

“What?”

“Circles of Hell.” Richelieu elaborated. “There were nine, not seven of them. And if you count the dungeons, there are actually eight…”

_‘Morgana and Mordred, let Hogwarts, good ol’ Hogwarts take pity on me and drop something very heavy on Richelieu’s head.’_

 An hour and half spent in fruitless attempts to give a lesson to Gryffindor and Slytherin did not make Treville’s day any better.

“So,” he said, taking in the aftermath of one-sided battle of thirty Year Sevens and one water spirit. “Disheartening. And you fought him on the ground.”

“You didn’t warn us you would make him seven times his size!” Bonnaire screeched. “And you cast _Silencio_ on the entire class!”

“It is a class on non-verbal spells, Bonnaire.”

“Thank Merlin you didn’t shout and just crawled under the desk,” Porthos had his cheek slashed for trying to pin down the water spirit. “I’d be not only mute but deaf too.”

“The love of my life is alive, thanks to my efforts!” The love of Bonnaire’s lesson threw her wand away at the beginning of the lesson, and twenty minutes later, she expedited the water spirit from his moustache. Treville had docked points from her, but he couldn’t help himself but appreciate a truly remarkable jump from a chandelier on water spirit’s head when he almost took a hold of Bonnaire’s backside.

The lesson had ended a little bit earlier, and the students instantly filled the classroom with cadent chatter. It was the end of the day, the last class during which they had to keep their mouth shut for the entire hour. Treville looked up at the clock and decided that he had enough time before the bell to finish up the sports column at The Daily Prophet he hadn’t had the chance to read at breakfast.

After a while the murmur became louder, and he raised his eyes: all the students gathered together and now were heatedly arguing.

“—Even Professor Treville knows it!”

“What do you mean by ‘even’?” Treville asked automatically and instantly regretted it because thirty pairs of curious eyes promptly stared at him.

“So you have been in love, sir?” Aramis inquired silkily.

Treville made a note to himself to inquire Aramis on chapter seven next time they have a class.

“Everyone has been in love once,” he replied evasively.

“What? Really? Tell us! Who was it? Why aren’t you married then?” the children yelled simultaneously.

“Quiet!” Treville barked and they fell silent. He ran his eyes over them and realised that he wouldn’t get away without an answer. “We went our separate ways and haven’t seen each other since. And then you lot came along, so there was the end of that.”

“Oh,” the students drawled. Treville felt the corner of his mouth twitch: children. Did they really expect some big tragic love story from him?

After letting the kids go, Treville looked out of the door and after making sure that Fortune was finally on his side and there was no red robe in sight, he started to descend the stairs, wishing for a glass of something strong in a quiet and solitary comfort of his office.

His luck did not last long.

Drinking alcohol beverages in offices was not welcomed nowadays, especially in front of the students, but considering all the shit Treville had to deal with on a daily basis, he got away with it, unless it wasn’t Anne Habsburg knocking on his door.

The door creaked.

“Dominique Cassini, I will not let you re-take the test on methods for disarming pixies for the seventh time, no matter how many letters your parents send me,” Treville announced without looking up from his search of Firewhiskey in the depth of the cupboard.

“I’m afraid that Dominique Cassini is not here,” he heard a familiar voice and silently cursed Merlin, Mordred and Morgana.

He wouldn’t mind Anne Habsbhurg paying him an unexpected visit right about now.

He plonked a lone glass on the table next to the bottle, very eloquently saying that the guests were most certainly unwelcome.

“Are you allowed to drink during the work hours?” Richelieu asked, ignoring the hint.

“You are still in a habit of poking your nose into other people’s business,” Treville informed him, pouring himself a healthy serving of amber liquid. He was not going to small-talk with Richelieu while sober.

“You are still loved by Hogwarts,” Richelieu said pensively, pointing at the wall behind Treville. There proudly hung the Gryffindor colours signed with ‘The Bestest Head of House”. At the very bottom of his cynical heart, when the kids had given him the present after winning the House Cup, Treville was touched. It wouldn’t be hanging if he wasn’t.

Treville scrunched his nose, and the corner of Richelieu’s thin lips twitched.

“You never liked it. Twenty years later and the name still stuck.”

Treville huffed and stared at the full glass in front of him.

“What’s the feint they are always talking about?” Richelieu asked, interested. “The time when I was discharged from the Mungo’s?”

 _‘When you discharged yourself two weeks early,’_ Treville corrected him in his mind. In  his mind only. If he had said it out loud, he would’ve started an old argument, and that was a dangerous territory. Too familiar. Too established. In other word, dangerous.

“I wasn’t going to tell them that I was so surprised seeing you in the crowd that almost fell of the broom. The ball just was in my way. People would ask questions,” Treville answered reluctantly.

_‘About you.’_

“I understand.”

Richelieu propped his shoulder against the wall and looked around the office with interest. There was nothing of interest to look at, so after glancing at the shelves with miscellaneous books, a couple of Gryffindor Cups, a few cages with dark creatures, and an aquarium with Marsac, Richelieu went back to looking at Treville. Nothing of interest to look at either.

“What are you doing here?” Treville finally asked when he got tired of feeling a piercing look of grey eyes on him.

“I need your help,” they both knew that it wasn’t an answer to his question.

Treville had to give himself credit, his hand didn’t flinch as he poured himself Firewhiskey.

“I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.”

“Don’t try to act stupider than you actually are, Treville, that doesn’t suit you.”

“Why?” he brought the glass to his lips.

“Shall we meet at the Grand Staircase after dinner?”

Treville successfully missed, and all of Firewhiskey ended up on his front.

“Richelieu, listen,” he coughed, “I don’t want to disappoint you, but—”

“Not for _that_!” Richelieu huffed and crossed his arms in front of him. “Just… after dinner, okay?” and he turned towards the door.

“I won’t be there,” Treville said to thin back.

“Oh, you will,” Richelieu chuckled as he put his hand on the door handle. “You are dying of curiosity.”

Morgana damn him.

Treville decided not to go out of principle.

Bracing himself against the bannister of the Grand Staircase, Treville, too sober to deal with any of this, was thinking about where all of his principles had gone over the past two hours.

Richelieu, having taken his students out of the Great Hall, raised his wry eyebrows and ordered his students to leave without him and walked towards Treville. Out of bloody nowhere he fished out a pack of some sort of fudge and without preamble stuck one into Treville’s mouth.

“Try out French fudge, Professor Treville,” Richelieu stretched pale lips in a convivial smile that made him look like a carnivore maniacal stick-insect.

“Mhm,” Treville made an unintelligible sound — his teeth were tightly stuck together.

“Bon soir, Vargas,” Richelieu exclaimed past his shoulder. “Are you going straight to bed?”

“I’ll take a walk,” Vargas replied curtly. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m knackered,” Richelieu bared his teeth in a feral grin.

_‘Richelieu, what the f—’_

“Fudge? Professor Treville says it’s absolutely amazing!”

“Mhm,” Treville nodded, shooting Richelieu a dirty look. _‘I advise you to walk carefully in the dark corridors when you are alone.’_

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to decline,” Vargas gritted through his teeth. “Good night; Richelieu, Treville.”

After Vargas vanished out of sight, Treville made a forceful swallowing motion and grabbed Richelieu by his arm.

“The Merlin’s saggy left bollock you think you are doing?!” he hissed.

“Did he leave?” Richelieu craned his neck to get a better look at the crowd and see Vargas figure past Treville’s shoulder. “Let’s go! Walk me to the Beauxbatons carriage.”

“Walk you to—” Treville tried to wrestle out of Richelieu’s grasp, but the bastard clutched his arm like a vice, dragging him along away from warm and bright castle towards a damp and dark evening. “If you don’t give me at least one reason why I shouldn’t consider you absolutely mental, I’m walking you to St. Mungo’s.”

“Vargas is snooping for something,” Richelieu replied sharply without stopping. “And I want to know why.”

“Why do you need me?”

“To show me where he’s going!” Richelieu came to an abrupt halt. “Where now?”

“How the hell do I know? It’s your barmy self who’s following Morgana knows who and Mordred knows why in the middle of the night—” Treville paused. “That’s what you were doing in the dungeons before lunch! You got lost!”

If not for twilight, Treville would have eaten his hat if Richelieu didn’t blush.

“Vargas went somewhere… there,” Richelieu pointed his hand towards the dark. “Where could he go?”

“It’s only the old stables over there. Let’s go.”

Nearing the stables, Treville finally lost his last shreds of patience. “Are you really that bad at navigating?”

“Can we change the subject?” Richelieu whispered. “We haven’t seen each other in two decades and you want to talk about _that_?”

“It is you—” who is walking to the old stables, where a suspiciously tempestuous activity had unfolded week before the first task of the Tournament. The realisation splashed him like a dirty underway water from beneath the wheels of a rushing carriage, cold and unpleasant. “Of course. How could I expect anything different from you.”

“As always,” Richelieu said quietly.

Treville had already opened his mouth to say that he was going back to the castle, and Richelieu should thank him for not reporting him to Louis, or Harriet Stuart, or that Sistini and stopped abruptly, taking in their surroundings.

It was a twenty minute walk to the castle. The rain that had started drizzling before dinner turned the ground beneath their feet into a dirty sludge. Richelieu looked at his mud-splashed shoes in disgust and radiated equanimity.

The darkness around them was pale and faded from the evening stars.

“He has no clue how to get back,” Treville realised. He didn’t bother to lie to himself that there wasn’t a not so small part of himself that wanted to leave Richelieu on his own in the middle of the forest for his scheming.

To his grave disappointment and at the very improper timing, common sense got the better of him.

“We are going back,” Treville saif decisively. “Screw Vargas and screw your scheming.”

There was a low mumbling in the distance, and Treville quietened, so he and Richelieu could hear familiar voices approaching the pens.

“Sir, are you sure that’s the place? Hogwarts brats say it’s just the old—”

“Shut up, Rochefort, and do as I say.”

Wet ground squelched too close for his comfort. Treville quickly grabbed Richelieu by his wrist and dragged him to hide in a thick thistly shrub that had a clear view of scurrying wizards around the cages.

The night was cut through by a deafening roar.

“See!” Richelieu whispered hotly into his ear. “I’ve told you! He dragged his champion along!”

“Why did you drag _me_ along?” Treville whispered back. “What are they doing here anyway?”

In a wet whisper Richelieu told him the following: at breakfast Vargas had got an owl, and Richelieu by sheer accident seen (more likely peeked) that the Headmaster of Durmstrang had a secret source, telling him that the first task of the Tournament arrived this evening, and Vargas had been encouraged to take a refreshing walk to the old stables at the edge of the forest. Obviously, Richelieu had thought of it as a violation of the rules and decided to follow Vargas to expose him.

Knowing Richelieu, Treville gathered the following: if Vargas had really got the letter from the secret source, and Richelieu had peeked at the letter and decided to see the task for himself, so Durmstrang didn’t get the upper hand over Beauxbatons, he thought of Hogwarts only after realising that there was no way he would be able to get here without help.

Vargas and Rochefort chose a far dryer place to hide and settled under a shed. Dark-blue robes blended into the night, and Treville prayed that Richelieu’s bright-red clothes would be mistaken for glints from blazing bonfires.

“I am not going to help D’Artagnan,” Treville said softly, looking at the fuss down at the stables. The cages were shaking from deafening and violent roars. The wizards couldn’t get any closer than thirty feet. “If the boy wants to win, he’ll have to do it fair and square.”

“On the count of three, lads” the wizards pulled off the cloth from the cages.

“Manticores,” Richelieu said grimly. “Still sure you don’t want to help your half-blood?”

“What do you have against the half-bloods?” Treville bristled without looking away from gargantuan beasts. Big ones; the sleek fur of their lion bodies glistened in bonfire light; the scorpion tails tried to squeeze through fine-barred cage at every whipstitch.

“He can be a Muggle, for all I care, Treville,” Richelieu huffed in derision. “It’s not going to save him from the manticores.”

The next cage was swarming full of acromantules and Treville liked the blasted Tournament less and less with every passing minute.

“The first task is going to be unfair because of you,” he grumbled into Richelieu’s ear. The shrub wasn’t that big, and the thorns dug into him everywhere. Treville tried to make himself comfortable and promptly failed: he lost his balance and had to hold onto Richelieu’s shoulder if he didn’t want to fall into mud under their feet.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault? Merlin, it’s a surprise that Hogwarts wins anything at all, but if you’ll keep it up at this rate, I doubt you will become champions this year.”

Treville wanted to argue, but he was too cold to talk: he wasn’t dressed for the weather, and the rain was getting heavier, soaking through his robes and shirt underneath.

‘We sit like complete idiots in the shrub’ Treville thought to himself. ‘When I thought of seeing him again, I did not picture our meeting like this.’

The last time they’d seen each other twenty years ago hadn't been a lot more dignified. Come to think of it. Things had gotten rather ugly. Sitting knee deep in mud under a pouring rain had its moments in comparison.

Next was the cage with a massive reptile, whose eyes were protected by big oculars with thick dim glasses.

Oh, for the love of—

“A _basilisk_?! You are telling me that _my kid_ is going against a bloody _basilisk_?!”

“Can you be a little bit quieter?” Richelieu hissed and poked him under the ribs with his bony elbow. “Hurry up before anyone notices us.”

What Treville didn’t notice, as he and Richelieu were getting out of the shrub and stretching numb limbs, was a multi-legged shadow of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan when they darted off towards the castle in fear of being discovered.

“So during all those Tournaments,” Treville continued their conversation, as soon as they were out of earshot. “You cheat?”

“The Tournament, Treville, shows the best wizarding youth of the country. It’s either showing that the country is useless and has no promising wizards, or the aforementioned wizards are lured to the other side. You know it perfectly well,” Richelieu replied carelessly.

Treville had no doubt that Richelieu would tell about the task to his champion straight away, and Rochefort had seen the creatures with his own eyes. The only one who remained clueless was D’Artagnan. Telling him would be unfair. Not telling him would be unfair as well — Bloody hell, why it was so complicated. And the only one to blame for Treville’s inner turmoil was Richelieu. As usual.

He raised his eyes and looked at the narrow and pale face in the dark.

“It’s been twenty years,” Treville slowly said. “And I stupidly thought that you’ve changed since then.”

“Well, you can think the worst of me as you usually do, it will spare you the disappointment.” Richelieu said coldly and crossed his arms on his chest.

Treville suddenly felt incredibly tired and wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible. However, he found strength in himself to chuckle dismissively.

“I don’t care any more, Richelieu,” Treville said and started walking towards the castle, so he wouldn’t have to see a vulnerable expression that flashed for a moment across Richelieu’s his face. His chest felt heavy.

Wet soil squelched under the feet, and it wasn’t so cold any more, mainly because Treville had been frozen to the very marrow of his bones, and the temperature of his body came up to the temperature of the air.

A lonely owl hooted in the distance.

 


End file.
